Excelsius Dei
by Solain Rhyo
Summary: Isolde, sent to Britain to slay a man, abruptly finds her freedom - but it comes with a price. Tristan romance, slightly AU.
1. I

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_This fic leans heavily towards AU; there are historical inaccuracies and discrepancies throughout, and I am aware of them. That said, I'm exercising once again my artistic license, so please bear with me. This first chapter is long because I wanted to get the heroine's history out in the open so that I may continue the rest of the story without having to resort to flashbacks. _

_If you have questions or feedback, please let me know what you think._

**. I .**

And so my end is nigh.

Sounds reach my ears even as I write this, quill scribbling furiously, roughly, over the dry, faded parchment. They are sounds of battle, sounds of war, and I know with a cold, unrelenting certainty that it will not be long until I am found. I have contemplated fighting, making a final stand for all I believe in and all I have lost, but there is no point. Not anymore. I must make better use of my final hours in this life; I must document now all I have known and seen, and hope that after the last breath leaves me, I will live on in these writings. It is the dearest wish of any human, to be remembered after death …

But I digress.

I am safe here, for a while. I hope fervently that the hours it will take to breach the walls will be enough for me to finish what I have only just started. No more idle thoughts and regrets; I must begin …

My name is Isolde, and this is my tale.

**. I .**

Identity is something that has always eluded my grasp; from my earliest memories I was simply a child without a home. The language I first heard and thus learned to comprehend was that of Rome, and perhaps that makes me Roman, for _locus enim est principum generationis_; if there was another tongue sung to me when I was but a mere babe nestled close to my mother's chest it has been lost along with the shrouded fragments of my history. But wait – what I have said is misleading, for I was not a Roman in the true sense. I was raised amongst them, I grew amongst them, but there was one aspect that separated me from them entirely, and that was the shackles of my servitude.

I was for the first part of my life a slave.

Isolde was a strange name, I was told often by those in my acquaintance, and not knowing better I was inclined to agree. Later, when I was older and thought to understand more, I was told that it was not a Roman name, and came to understand that this was not a good thing. I am getting ahead of myself again; I will elaborate only briefly on my upbringing within the great cradle of civilization known as Rome.

I was a ward in a house for children of pasts better forgotten; there were many of us, and none of us were truly Roman. Some of us had swarthy skin and dark eyes which hinted at hotter, drier climes; some among us were quite fair, pale features and paler hair which hinted at lands far and distant. I was somewhere inbetween; eyes the shade of alder leaves and thick chestnut hair. I cannot recall any of my life before this and did not think to ask until much later. At such tender ages we were not aware of our social status, and though we were slaves we were not treated unkindly. We were loved by the Mistress of our house and her servants, and they would play and sing with us as if we were all their own; because of this, my childhood is one of fond recollections.

All good things are not to last, however, and that is a fact I have been forced to accept repeatedly throughout the course of my life. I remained in the care of my Mistress until the age of thirteen, and it was then that my life to date was abruptly thrown into chaos. I shall spare you the details, suffice to say that I was of the age and appearance to interest a certain type of buyer, and so I was sold into the care of House Eriedes. Even I, at such a tender age, knew what Eriedes was; it was the most renowned house of courtesans within Rome.

What followed my immediate relocation is of no interest, and I'm sure it can be guessed … I will, however, tell you that while I abhorred what I was made to do there simply was no other option. As I went about my duties, there was something strange regarding my tutelage, my lessons on how to be suitably coy and deceptively meek when in the presence of a client. Strange men in cowls of blue would appear at the oddest times and question me, examine me, and ask me if I would serve God with fervor. My answer was yes, of course (_what else was I to say? I had no wish to be branded a heretic and executed_) and then they would leave only to return again some other day. And so this continued, and so I continued, until the day I turned fifteen. And then, incorporated inbetween my appointments and regular classes, I began to learn things a normal girl of my occupation would not be learning, things like sword-craft, archery, how to ride a horse. All these I learned from the men –and women- of the blue cowls. It was revealed to me in small, cautious snippets of information that my new tutors were members of a highly diplomatic religious sect. Further timid inquiry on my behalf eventually earned me their title: _Excelsius Dei_. But of their interest in me I could ascertain nothing, and was simply told that all I was learning would be of use to me in good time.

The time came two years later, when I, at seventeen, had developed a regular and devoted clientele. Of my patrons was Lutatius, member of the late republican senate, an aging but still powerful man. I was given a small grey powder before meeting with him and was instructed to slip it into his nightly wine. Having dire suspicions, I questioned the purpose of the powder, but was answered very vaguely and told that I must do this in order to attain and secure the destiny I was being molded for. And so I did as I was bid, and that night Lutatius died in my arms of a heart attack. I was mortified, but it was no surprise. The next day it was announced Lutatius had succumbed to old age, and things within the Senate were spurred into motion at his passing; I was too young even to grasp what had been done, but somehow the death of one senator had given the Pope, and through him _Excelsius Dei_, more reigning power …

Days later I was ordered by my house Mistress to dress in my finery, and I was taken from Eriedes by the several members of the Order to a sacrosanct and somewhat hidden temple within the farthest reaches of Rome. I stood then within a ring of blue cowled people, and there were more, far more, than I had anticipated. I was told then by a man I could see that I had been chosen for greater glory to serve God in a manner others could not, that I would become a weapon, a dealer of righteous justice in the name of all that was Holy. I would smite all heathens, all pagans, all who betrayed God's trust and in return I would be granted all that divine heaven had to offer in the afterlife …

To truly become God's servant, another man told me, I must bear his mark upon my skin to completely belong to Him. Terrified, panicking, I watched as a large brazier was brought forth and with it a multitude of long shafts of metal. It took me only an instant to realize they were branding irons; I would have fled if I could have, but suddenly I was swarmed and restrained. To serve God was to endure pain, they told me in different voices, and this tribulation would be proof of my acceptance of my fate. I said nothing, for what could I say that would not lead me to death? And so I watched numbly as the irons were warmed to glowing red within the brazier fire, and as those irons were brought down upon the flesh of my right forearm I screamed. My sound of agony brought me no respite; through the searing, blistering haze I realized that this was no simple brand – this was a complex multitude of lines and symbols drawn with fire across my skin. When the pain grew too great I fell into merciful darkness, and when I next awoke I was back in the house of Eriedes, and the entire length of my arm from elbow to wrist was a mass of angry scars. That was not the full extent of my marking, however; the palm of my hand had received a different brand, and even through the swollen, distorted tissue I could see it was a crucifix, stylized in some bizarre foreign manner I had never seen.

I was granted leave from my courtesan duties for the months it took my arm to heal, and instead resumed my studies given to me by _Excelsius Dei. _I was by that time adept in horsemanship, adequate with a bow, and quite skilled with a sword. What followed my return as a courtesan is unimportant, save for the fact that I began to serve out my tasks described to me the day of my branding; another difference was in the clothes I wore, for my brands could not be exposed to anyone. From that point on I wore always a glove on my right hand, and sleeves which covered the entirety of my arms.

In the four years that passed I murdered many men, most with poison, some with weapons concealed within the alluring shrouds of my clothing I wore to seduce them. Did ever I grow accustomed to killing? Yes. The more I did it the easier it became, until finally I felt no twinges of regret as I watched the life fade from their eyes, or their last breath rattle in their lungs. This was my destiny, after all …

The members of _Excelsius Dei_ exulted in my successes. I was praised time and time again; I was given exuberant gifts of jewellery and fine silks. I came to know some of the sect without their masks and cowls; they were, as I had suspected, prominent members of both society and the church. And as I grew to know them more, the more they began to indulge with me their plans. My life continued in a pattern of some normalcy for some time; I killed as I was directed to and lived as any courtesan would.

Now, you may question why I had been trained in horsemanship and archery when I never left the city, and I too had wondered. I verbalized my curiosity often, and one day in my twenty third year I was given an answer. Ultimately, it was explained, I would leave Rome, and travel across the entire span of her empire to eradicate those who were deemed by the church a threat to the religious sanctity and structure of Rome. I would always travel with a Roman contingent, but they would not know my purpose, and I would be known only as a lady with of some standing wanting to see the empire. Unusual, unorthodox, yes, but when men are given orders and paid enough money they do not ask questions. The time would come soon for me to leave, I was told, and I must be prepared. And then they told me of one Lucius Artorius Castus, a Roman commander stationed in far away Britain. He was loyal still, I learned, but he followed the teachings of one Pelagius. I had heard this name before; Pelagius was a man who had died very recently for his unprecedented views of equality among all people. I knew who was behind his death; indeed, I would have been a fool not to. My task would be to journey to Hadrian's Wall in Britain disguised as the wife of a church emissary and assassinate this Artorius lest he spread the heretic words of his late mentor.

Part of me was unmoved by this, and the other, larger part of me was stricken with fascination and excitement by the prospect of such a grand adventure. Three months later the plan was put into action, and I was taken from House Eriedes in the middle of the night and led from Rome by some of my now familiar blue cowled associates. Two days later I was onboard a large merchant vessel headed for the isle of Britain; upon my departure the members of _Excelsius Dei_ that had come with me gifted me with high quality weapons which best suited my skills. That night the ship set sail, with only me, several rich merchants and their wives, and an entire legion of soldiers. I was not worried about being alone; I was confident, overly so, and unafraid. Ignorance and bravery are similar things, however …

The time spent on the boat was miserable; I was sick most of the time, and do not choose to recall the details. Some weeks later we encountered a fierce storm; our ship was tossed back and forth amidst the roiling, angry mass that was the sea. We survived the storm, but the ship had taken heavy damages, and so we were forced to come ashore much further north than initially anticipated. As we were rowed to shore by the legionnaires, we warned that we must move fast and discreetly across the land before us, for we were far, far north of Hadrian's Wall; we had passed beyond even the Woad territory into the lands of the fierce Saxons.

Despite the urgent warnings, we could not move swiftly. Many of us, mostly the merchants and their wives, were ill and weak, still recovering from our sea voyage, and the abrupt transition of transportation methods had left the rest of us dazed. And so we were half-herded, half-led over rocky, intimidating shores into equally unforgiving highlands and bluffs. Though we were driven by the dire warnings uttered to us by the legionnaire captain and his men, it was to no avail, and two days after coming ashore we unwittingly stumbled across a Saxon hunting party. What transpired then was swift and brutal, and of the sixty of us to have left the ship, only twenty three remained after the battle. We did nothing with the dead; we could not spare the time, and so our small, ragged caravan trekked unrelentingly through the Saxon lands, staying close to the shore as directed by the commander of the legionnaires. I was very grateful then to have the soldiers, for this was not how I had pictured my first days in Britain. I had not revealed my abilities when the Saxons had attacked, as I had not thought it prudent; it was best, I had often been told, to keep secrets as secrets, for that is when they are most useful.

It took us six days to reach the Wall, and by the time we reached the small garrison at one of the gates we had lost five more of our number to festering wounds received from the Saxon battle. We were allowed to pass through the gate without incident. Hours later, well away from the Wall, our party was ambushed by what I recognized from tale and hearsay as Britons, or Woads. They outnumbered us, and as legionnaires collapsed from all sides with arrows in their bodies, as the Woads swarmed down from the forest towards us, I realized my only chances for survival would be to avoid confrontation.

I fled then, running as best I could in my skirts, and when I reached our supply wagon I swiftly withdrew the heavy pack which held belongings I knew I would need. The wagon was at the rear of our group and the Woads had not yet reached it; I ran headlong down the slope we had been in the process of descending, staying as low to the ground as I could. It was both frightening and exhilarating, for I knew at any moment that a single arrow could end my life. The fates were with me, however, and I made it to the bottom of the hill. A large river ran there, and laying myself down upon its rocky banks I watched by peeking my head over the edge as my travelling companions were brutally slain. It was over quickly, the screams of the merchant's wives the last of the sounds to be carried away by the wind. I dare not move and had no idea whether the Woads would venture my way or not. Again, the fates had decided to spare me, and I watched with almost tangible relief as they faded again into the shadowed depths of their forest home.

I was completely and utterly alone then in an alien land, but I did not despair. I felt something else, instead, and upon swift inner reflection as I waded across the shallow yet cold waters of the river I realized I was free –it would be assumed I was dead, killed by the Woads, when word -if ever it did- reached Rome. All my ties to _Excelsius Dei_, to God, to my former life had been severed in the span of several minutes. No longer was I the tool of death, no longer would I have to pleasure others simply because I was a slave. I could live for myself, now …

And for the first time in many long years, my laughter held true joy.

I had never thought what it might mean to be free because I had assumed it would simply never happen. I had accepted, resignedly, that I was a killer out of necessity; to disobey was to die, and no matter how disillusioned I became with life I still wanted to live it. And now, faced with the prospect before me, I felt something bubble within me, something that curved my lips into a smile and made me feel utterly euphoric.

_Freedom …_

I didn't let my new discovery replace common sense; I was acutely aware that a lone female in a strange land boded ill. And so I removed from my pack my bow and the small quiver I had brought with me and fastened them across my back, and hefting the bag again I began to walk. It did not take me long to find a road; it was rutted and worn, indicating recent and continual use. I knew from long hours of study that Britain had many Roman outposts and villages, and if I followed one of these roads, I was sure to come upon them sooner or later. The day by that point was waning, and I was apprehensive about the oncoming of night. The road brought me to another river as the sun began to set; this one was wide and fast flowing and I was unsure whether I could cross it safely on foot.

I was pondering my dilemma when I first heard the hoofbeats. Too late did I realize horsemen were coming, and there was absolutely nowhere for me to hide. I could only turn and watch with my heart in my throat as several horses bearing riders came swiftly into view from around a bend in the road. The one in the lead wore the breastplate and helm of a Roman, and I felt tension leave me somewhat. For a moment there was only a pregnant silence as I was regarded by and regarded in turn the four men. I was aware of how incongruous I looked; a female in fine garb that was dirtied and torn, long braided hair a dishevelled, dirty mess, a yew longbow and quiver worn across her back , and a large leather pack in one hand. I was saved from making excuses by the voice of the one I perceived as Roman.

"Lady, are you of the caravan that was attacked to the north?"

I opened my mouth, closed it, and inwardly grimaced. My sophisticated, confident courtesan alter ego had apparently fled in the face of these armed men. Finally I found my voice and was relieved to find it steady. "Yes."

His expression was one of mixed disbelief and bemusement, but he said, "We came upon the caravan naught but one hour ago; the commander at the garrison told us you had passed through this morning. We have secured the survivors and are taking them back to our outpost to the south. Your tracks we found near the river crossing."

"And they weren't hard to follow," muttered one of the other men, just loud enough that I could hear. I flushed suddenly; I had not taken into account the fact that I may be tracked. Hoping the sudden rush of color to my cheeks was unnoticeable, I flicked a glance at the others behind the leader, and quite suddenly I realized they looked nothing like Romans; there was something feral, something indescribably wild about them, and the tension that had left me returned in force.

"Survivors?" I asked then, belatedly remembering what else he had said.

"Yes," said the leader, and at that moment more horses rounded the bend, and behind them came the supply wagon that had been with our caravan. Seated within it were people, though I could not make them out. "The wagon was untouched, and the Woads were not thorough enough, for three others besides you have survived."

"Just how did you survive?" Asked the one who had made the remark about my tracks –he watched me with ill concealed amusement and scepticism, a tall man with a cap of dark curls. I felt more color flood my cheeks at his words; if I were to tell them the truth, that I had run, they would think of me as a coward. _Why did I care what they thought?_ I wondered a moment later, but was saved from replying when a woman's voice rang out.

"_Isolde?_ Isolde! Praise God you are alive!"

I recognized the voice, and though it had harangued me incessantly throughout my entire journey from Rome I was ridiculously glad to hear it now. It belonged to a merchant wife, Lucilla, whose husband Praxus had died the day we had encountered the Saxons. She was standing within the now empty supply wagon, one hand raised in my direction, and I returned the gesture. I could see now more armoured men on horses surrounding the wagon, and they looked as their comrades did, and that was anything but Roman.

The leader moved his horse closer to me. "Allow us to escort you to our garrison, Lady, at the south reach of the Wall. From there we will send word to Rome of your situation, and you may remain safely until plans can be made to take you to your destination."

I hesitated at this, having had no time to think up a suitable lie as to my actual purpose here. I had no choice, I knew then, but to go along with them. Opportunities, after all, presented themselves at the most incongruous of times. I nodded my acceptance, and he bestowed upon me a kind smile.

"You can ride in the wagon with the others," he said, and I watched as said wagon, driven by another merchant who had apparently survived the Woads' fury, lumbered closer. As it drew to a halt near me I swallowed; I counted seven of the armoured men, including their leader … why did this make me so uneasy? I accepted the hand the merchant –Gracchus- offered to me, and once I was settled within the wagon with the others, my pack at my side, the leader spoke again to us all.

"It is a three day ride to our garrison, but you need not worry. We will keep you safe."

"Blessed be," said Lucilla, who had clutched my arm as I sat beside her and had not let go. "Who are you that has saved us?"

"I am Arthur," the leader said as his horse fidgeted beneath him, "Arthur Castus, and these," he gestured at the six men who had assembled now in front of the wagon, "are my knights."

Arthur Castus.

_Lucius Artorius Castus._

A sick feeling overwhelmed me then, as I watched the man I had come to kill wheel his horse about and speak orders to his knights. Lucilla and the last survivor, a legionnaire, were exclaiming at their good fortune to have come upon the legendary Sarmatian knights. I said nothing, but closed my eyes and realized my earlier jubilation had been premature; the fates, it seemed, would not make freedom that easy for me to attain. I did not want to kill this man; I wanted nothing to do with him. I simply wanted to start over somewhere and etch out an existence that was completely unlike everything I had had before. As long as I remained in the presence of Arthur Castus, I was in danger, for I knew that my death would not dissuade _Excelsius Dei_; they would keep simply sending their assassins until he was dead.

"My dear?" Lucilla moved her face close to mine, clucking concernedly, "Oh, you are so pale … you must have been so frightened. How did you escape? And why do you carry that weapon?"

"I ran," I said heavily, in answer to her first question. I did not bother to respond to the second, but instead lowered my lashes and turned my head away, feigning sleep.

And it was for a long time after that, as the wagon lurched to and fro within the ruts of the road, that I studied Arthur Castus and his knights.

**. I .**

**TBC**


	2. II

**Author's Note: **_Thank you kindly for the reviews! I've had this idea floating around in my head for quite awhile, and being as I am fixated on Tristan, Isolde seemed the natural choice … _

_Someone asked me in a review whether **Excelsius Dei** really existed; as far as I know, they didn't. I took the name from an episode of a TV show I really liked (X-Files); translated it means either "Glory to God" or "Glory of God", both of which I though were rather apt for what I was using it for. Someone also suggested that I show Isolde through the views of the other knights, and while I find this an intriguing suggestion I don't think it would fit with this story, which I am trying largely to keep a first person narrative. However, it doesn't rule out making a separate fic tied to this that contains the knights' perspectives …._

_As well, I was so excited when I finally finished the first chapter that I neglected to post the translation of the latin phrase I used in the beginning. "Locus enim est principum generationis rerum" translates into "for place is the origin of all things"._

_Thank you again for the reviews, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

**. I .**

As the sun began to bleed its last light across the forested horizon, Arthur called a halt to our march. Lucilla had fallen asleep at my side, and as the wagon drew to a gently rumbling stop her head fell against my shoulder. The slumbering legionnaire across from us, lying on his side, stirred briefly but resumed his deep breathing. With the horses pulling the wagon stopped, Gracchus dropped the reins and flashed me a brief, sympathetic smile before climbing to the ground and approaching the now dismounted Arthur. I remained where I was; the knights unnerved me, and I was not used to that. A courtesan has a certain level of control in her life, though it may not appear that way; for the most part I was able to decide whom to pleasure, who I would entertain. And always, _always_, the men were subservient to me –the price they paid for a night in my arms dictated they must be. That was the other half to my newfound apprehension; the only men I had ever been in extended contact with were those who had sought me out for my expertise. There were the members of Excelsius Dei, of course, but the time I spent with them was always brief, always formal, and I had spent only a few impersonal weeks with the legionnaires that had accompanied me from Rome. These men, these … knights, they were of an alien, frightening nature that I had never been exposed to.

Lucilla began to snore softly in my ear, pulling me back from my nervous reveries. Suddenly the covered confines of the wagon seemed too small, and very gently I pushed the merchant wife away from me and eased her back against the wooden sides. I came into a crouch, wincing as my muscles, so unaccustomed to the heavy strain exerted on them these last few weeks, protested vehemently. Carefully, quietly, I pulled my bow over my head and slipped it into my leather pack. I unbuckled my quiver, full of the smaller arrows I was accustomed to, and set it also within the pack. For a moment I debated against leaving my things there in the wagon, for I knew Lucilla was the nosy sort, but I realized how ludicrous it would look for me to be carrying it with me everywhere. I tucked it beneath an overlap of the heavy canvas which covered the wagon before easing my way out from underneath. I stood then on the buckboard of the wagon, and took a moment to look around surreptitiously.

We had halted in a small clearing off the side of the road. The horses of the knights were tethered in a nearby copse of trees, and their masters were now to the left of the wagon a fair distance trying to start a fire. I dearly wanted to climb down and stretch my aching body, but at the prospect of facing seven unknown men an unpleasant feeling settled in the depths of my stomach, and with a sigh I turned again to the cabin of the wagon.

"You must be hungry."

The observation elicited a gasp from me, and I spun around quickly. Half crouching, half standing, my head impacted with the wooden arch of the wagon cover, and with a muted sound of pain I fell ungracefully to my knees.

"Apologies," the speaker said, and there was no denying the amusement in his words. Through eyes which watered I was able to see it was the knight who had teased me earlier. "I did not mean to startle you."

I muttered something incomprehensible, still clutching my head with one hand and using the other to help me rise. I heard a soft chuckle, and I let fall my hand to glare with narrowed eyes upon the one who found my misery so entertaining. He was a tall man, lean, armoured in black with rivets of metal, and I could see clearly two sword scabbards protruding over his shoulders. He had the head of thick, short black curls that I had noticed before; a thin precise beard lined his mouth and cheeks, and his darker features, while genial, held faint traces of arrogance. Black eyes dancing with mirth regarded me, and because that mirth was at my expense I felt my ire rise.

Prompted by my silence, he inquired cheerfully, "Have you been rendered suddenly mute? Or perhaps your voice has fled in the face of my irresistible charm?"

For a moment I could only stare at him, astounded by his audacity. I opened my mouth then to say something scathing –I do not know exactly what- but he raised one arm to cut me off with another wide smile.

"Are you hungry? You and the others with you?"

I glanced into the wagon; in the dying light I could barely make out the still sleeping forms of Lucilla and the legionnaire. I said stiffly, "They are asleep."

"And you?"

Was I hungry? Oh, yes. Did I want him to know just how much? No. My inner debate must have been easy to read, for he said, "We don't poison our food." He paused, and then added with a grin, "Much."

The urge to throw something heavy and sharp at his head was rising; I eyed him with an expression that made him chuckle again. "Come down," he said then, "and come to the fire. You need to eat something."

It was tempting, so very tempting, but I caught a glimpse past him at his comrades as they moved as mere silhouettes now around the fire. They were even more intimidating in the dark. I shook my head mutely.

Knowing what I was looking at, he said, "We are much friendlier than we look. You have nothing to fear." Seeing the resolution on my face, he sighed with good humoured resignation. "Very well. I will bring some food for you and the others."

As he made to leave I asked, curious despite myself, "What is your name?"

His charming, easy smile flared once again before he turned away, tossing a reply over his shoulder, "Lancelot."

**.I .**

The knight was true to his words, and he returned a short time later bearing a fabric wrapped bundle of steaming slabs of meat of some sort and thick slices of ration bread. I bent and took it from him with murmured thanks, to which he merely nodded. As I stooped to wake the others, he said, "Arthur will be here shortly. He wishes to speak with all of you."

I paused, my eyes scanning the night he had shaped himself out of, able to see only shadows surrounding the hearty orange glow of the large fire. Lancelot's announcement made me nervous, though I tried not to show it. I was unsure whether my tension was obvious or not, for he merely gave me a brief smile before turning to make his way again to the fire. Clutching his offering, I tentatively made my way back underneath the wagon covering. It was dark enough now that I could scarcely discern Lucilla and the legionnaire, but the combined sounds of their snoring informed me they were still in repose. I knelt at Lucilla's side and shook her shoulder gently; she came awake slowly, with a gasped, "What is it?"

"There is food here for us," I said, unwrapping the bundle of cloth and holding it out before her.

"Blessed be. I feel as though I have not eaten in months. The knights brought this?"

"Yes."

"Where are we?" A husky male voice asked, and I watched the shadow of the legionnaire across from us unfold and rise into a sitting position. I told him as much as I knew, and he nodded. After nabbing a slice of bread from the bundle I passed it to him, and for a moment we all sat in silence, enjoying our meager but desperately needed repast. As I swallowed the last of the dry bread, Lucilla began to speak to the legionnaire.

"We have been remiss in our introductions, for I know not your name. We should all be familiar, for we shall be together for some time, it seems. I am Lucilla, and my husband," here her voice cracked, and I felt a rush of sympathy. She had suffered a great loss only recently, and she was putting up a very brave front. "My husband was Praxus Tacitus … he fell to the Saxons." There was a poignant silence then, as she bowed her head; a moment later she continued, her voice stronger, and she gestured to me. "This is Isolde. What are you called?"

"Sidonius," the legionnaire replied. "Sidonius Varius Laurentius. Soldier of the now decimated fifty-third legion … but I that I think you already knew."

There was a wry note in his voice that I instantly liked; he had accepted the events that had befallen us stoically, and seemed determined to keep living as he had. It was the most any of us could do, I realized, to accept the hand we had been dealt with grace and responsibility.

We spoke then of our uncertainties and of our expectations; it seemed both Sidonius and Lucilla were well versed in the tales of Arthur Castus and his Sarmatian knights. They were both relieved we were now in his charge, for if there was ever a man that could get them home it would be he. I remained silent on the subject, for I did not share their optimistic view. I did not want to go back to Rome, I did not want to return to the life I had left, but I had no doubts they would send me back. And should _Excelsius Dei_ hear word of my survival, they would expect me to complete my task. It was no longer a matter of not wanting to kill Arthur; I was now acutely aware that I was no match for him or any of his knights. Bedside assassinations disguised in seductions were one thing, but I did not think Arthur was a man to be lured in the manner I was so adept at. My skill with archery and the sword were now redundant; to attack him blatantly was certainly suicide. For the first time it occurred to me that my cowled benefactors had sent me to certain death; had they really expected me to succeed? I was mired firmly in the web the fates had woven for me, and I was searching frantically for an escape. I would not kill Arthur, but could not stay in his custody for the threat to my own survival ...

"I need to stretch my legs," Sidonius said then, and Lucilla nodded. I hesitated only for a minute; if they were leaving the wagon, then I would too, though I would not venture near the fire. One after the other we stood; Sidonius hopped to the ground and then turned to assist us both. I had taken but a few slow steps along the side of the wagon when Arthur appeared before the three of us, bearing a torch. As we all became awash in the firelight, Sidonius inclined his head respectfully, and Lucilla murmured soft praise. Watching from the side a small distance away, I remained cautiously silent.

"I regret that you have entered Britain under these circumstances," Arthur said, gracing us each in turn with his cursory gaze. "Had we known before time you were coming, we would have been at the garrison to meet you."

"It is not through fault of yours this happened, my lord," Sidonius replied, and went on to explain the travesties that had befallen us, starting with the storm at sea. Arthur listened intently, face grave, and when the legionnaire had finished he sighed slowly.

"Your journey has been cursed, but I promise you that from this point onwards you will suffer no more. We shall see you safely to our outpost, and from I will ensure you arrive where you are destined."

I held my breath, fearing he would ask where exactly it was we were headed; I had not yet formulated a lie to that question. Instead he said, "You know my name, but I do not know yours."

We told him, one after the other, and his expression altered only slightly, curiously, upon hearing mine that was obviously not of Rome. He nodded then, and gestured behind him to the fire with the torch. "You are welcome to join us, if you wish. I do recommend you get some rest, for we leave at daybreak, and our day will be long and arduous."

Sidonius opted to follow Arthur back to the others; Lucilla, like myself, seemed daunted by the prospect of facing Arthur's knights. We walked around briefly, keeping within perimeter of the wagon, before clamboring back into it. Settled again beneath the covering, we laid in the back side by side. Lucilla did some digging through the baggage from our slaughtered caravan that had remained intact.

"There are cloaks in here, to use as blankets," she said, producing two and handing one to me. It was heavy and thick, of good quality, and although it obviously belonged to a man I draped it around myself thankfully. "And have you any other clothing, Isolde? Oh, some of your things are still here. You will want to change come morning, I expect. That dress of yours has seen better days."

I remembered then why I hadn't particularily liked Lucilla when first we'd started travelling together. I ignored her, pulling the cloak together tightly and curling up on my side. Lucilla did the same, facing away from me. She began to talk then, rambling nonsense and badgering me with questions to which I replied with monosyllables. She fell silent after a while, and though I had expected sleep to remain elusive in light of all my worries, I followed her not soon after.

**. I . **

I was awake before Lucilla the next day, and hearing silence from outside I decided to brave the dawn and leave the wagon. Climbing down awkwardly I stifled a groan; a night's sleep on the hard wooden floor had done nothing for my already sore body. Upon the ground I surveyed my surroundings; the fire was still smoldering, and around it were arrayed dark, covered forms that I assumed to be the knights. Some were already awake and moving; lest I catch their attention I hurried around to the other side of the wagon. Leaning against it, I closed my eyes and breathed deep; the smell of the morning was heady, rich, and I had not before this taken the opportunity to appreciate the scents of nature. Feeling somewhat mollified by the first decent sleep I had had in weeks, I wandered back around the wagon whilst humming absently.

"You seem in good spirits this morning," Lancelot was standing where I had crawled down from the wagon, and though he startled me I managed not to jump. "I told you we didn't poison our food."

"And a lovely morning to you," I said a trifle peevishly. This man irked me as no other could, and I had only known him for a matter of hours.

"It is a lovely morning," he agreed jovially. "Not a cloud in the sky, which means hopefully no rain. That's one thing about this country I hate; it rains constantly. Does it rain often in Rome?"

His abrupt inquiry threw me; not wanting to reveal more about myself than was necessary I answered slowly. "Sometimes, yes, but not often."

"Is it everything Arthur tells me it is? A grand and glorious city of equality and good will towards everyone?" His tone was sceptical, and I could see then that he harboured no love towards Rome.

"Perhaps in some areas," I said, and could not mask the slight bitterness in my tone. _Equality?_ I knew nothing of it … if it existed there, why had I been forced into the life of a courtesan?

My answer was not what he expected, nor was the underlying emotion I had spoken with. His gaze upon me became focused and scrutinizing, and it was all I could do not to fidget beneath it. Finally he smiled.

"Perhaps Arthur has been gone too long. But I won't force you to converse with me any longer. I came to tell you and your companion that there is a small stream over there," he pointed with one gloved hand to the right of the wagon, "behind some trees that you can use to refresh if you so wish."

My interest piqued. I dearly wanted to rid myself of the blood and dirt I had accumulated since arriving on this island. "Go ahead," Lancelot said, "but be quick about it. We leave soon." And with that he turned and strode towards the horses.

I contemplated waking Lucilla, but decided not to bother. For fear of delaying our departure I cast one, nervous glance the way of the now roused knights before hastening in the direction Lancelot had indicated. I found the stream without difficulty; the sound of water running over rock alerted me to its location. It was small, barely rising over my ankles, and it was cold. I didn't care, and instead crouched in the middle of it, heedless of the hem of my skirt and cloak becoming soaked. I caught water in my cupped hands and splashed it upon my face; the shock was invigorating, and I gasped. After several minutes of this I pushed my cloak over my shoulders and set about cleaning the blood and caked dirt from my left arm. My right was encased beneath the long sleeves of my dress in a leather sheath which laced all the way up to the elbow. Attached to it was a covering which looped around my middle finger, leaving the rest of my fingers free and effectively hiding from sight the mark of my servitude to _Excelsius Dei _that was centered within my palm. I had thought when I was still in Rome that this would be more practical while journeying then the long gloves of fine cloth I usually wore, and so I had had it commissioned by a leather smith who was also a member of the Order. I raised my sleeves and examined it; it too was stained with the evidence of my journey, and the only way I could effectively clean it would be to remove it …

Quite abruptly I became aware that I was not alone; I rose to my feet and whirled about. Standing amongst the trees that bordered the stream was one of Arthur's knights; he held in one hand a bow, and I realized from his expression he had not expected to find me here. I had only caught a brief glimpse of him before; this close he was frightening, and I backed a step unconsciously. I had said that the knights looked to me like wild men, and this one was a testament to that fact. Like Lancelot he was tall and lean, and was armoured in thick, dark leather over which he wore mail of wide, circular rivets. His leathers fell to his knees, cut open wide in both the front and the back so as to allow freedom of movement. Dark eyes regarded me impassively, shadowed by the wayward braids and strands of his long uneven hair that fell haphazardly over his brow. I could see from where I stood black markings of a foreign nature adorning his cheeks; whether they were of paint similar to what the Picts used or whether they were of permanency, I was unable to tell. A dark beard shadowed the lower half of his face, graying near his chin.This man terrified me, and as though he were aware of my discomfiture a slight and vaguely sardonic smile flickered across his mouth.

"We leave soon," was all he said to me, the words lilted by an unusual accent I could not place. "Be quick, yea?"

Indignant despite my apprehension, I said evenly, "I had already finished."

He didn't bother to respond; I saw again the ghost of an unpleasant smile before he turned and wove his way between the trees; he had a long, predatory stride that told me he was as at home in the forest as he was anywhere. I stared after him, my heart racing; if all Arthur's knights terrified me this way I would drop dead well before we ever got to where we were going. I waited until he had gone beyond my line of sight before wading out of the stream and up the bank. I wrung out the bottom of my dress and cloak as best I could, and with a resigned sigh I began to make my way back to the wagon.

Unwilling assassin, courtesan foremost, and here I was traversing the wilds of Britain with men no more the image of genteel knights than I was of a savage. Had the fates a sense of humor?

Oh yes, and they were making the best of it by meddling with my life.

**. I . **


	3. III

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_Thankee for the reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying this. There are some things I want to clarify before I continue with this chapter. Firstly, I realize it may seem like Lancelot and Isolde are forming some sort of bond. This bond, however, isn't going to become romantic. Isolde is for Tristan, after all. Lancelot is, however, a knight with a personality that I enjoy, and hence I shall be making good use of it_

_Secondly, this chapter contains dialogue taken straight from the movie. Why did I include it? Because I like the witty repartee the knights exchange, and I wanted to use it to lighten the mood. _

_So, here's the third chapter. I hope you enjoy!_

**. I . **

Travel that day was the same as it had been the afternoon previous –tedious and slow. Sidonius had not returned to the wagon and was instead riding one of the spare horses the knights kept with them. I sat across from Lucilla, who was determined to keep up a steady flow of conversation lest we lapse into our more sombre, brooding thoughts. Gracchus from time to time would join our discussions, half turning in his seat with the reins held tight in his hands. After several hours, however, we had exhausted all topics, and Lucilla succumbed to sleep. I moved out from under the canopy then, and took a seat on the edge of the wagon, behind and to the side of Gracchus. I let hang my legs over the edge, and for a long while I simply stared at the ground passing beneath my feet. When Lancelot appeared before me, his pale horse pacing alongside the lumbering wagon, I was actually marginally glad to see him. Perhaps he was aware of my incredible boredom, for he took it upon himself to point out each and every one of his comrades to me and describe them in great detail as they rode a considerable distance ahead.

The very tall man with a head of dark stubble and a scarred face I learned was Dagonet. He was, Lancelot informed me, a quiet observer; a traditionalist with an overwhelming sense of honor who on the battlefield was a ferocious opponent. The large, also bald man riding next to Dagonet who spoke both loudly and brashly was Bors, and he was the veteran of the knights as well as father to eleven bastard children. He as well was a fierce fighter, and lived life with a joyous exuberance that, I was told, some found offensive.

Riding at the front of our company was the knight I had encountered earlier that morning –Tristan. Despite having the most distinctive of battle skills among them, explained Lancelot, Tristan was an extremely adept scout; his scouting was aided in part by his companion hawk. He, like Dagonet, was a man who spoke seldom, and when he did, did not mince words. He lived for the kill, I was informed, and to him killing was an art.

Riding to the left and the front of the carriage where the last two knights. Galahad, a slender man with thick dark hair and a short beard, was the youngest of them all -a fine warrior, somewhat impetuous, and affable. The man at his side was Gawain; he possessed a tangled mane of tawny hair that was long enough to put my own to shame, and possessed a close cropped beard very similar to those his comrades bore. Gawain was, Lancelot enlightened me, easy going, amiable, and to be feared in the field of battle.

"And that leaves Arthur and myself, and of the former I'm sure you've heard sung tales of his formidable fortitude and noble demeanour." Lancelot concluded with a wry grin. "And of my humble persona –is there anything you wish to know?"

I couldn't help but smile at this; he had added to his question a note of plaintive hopelessness that was completely out of character. I thought on his inquiry for a moment, and then asked, "Why do you wield two swords?"

His expression was momentarily startled; of all the questions I could have asked, this was not what he had anticipated. Swiftly the supercilious smile I was fast becoming familiar with spread across his face, and he asked in turn, "Why do you wear only one glove?"

I glanced down, flushing; where it rested in my lap my right hand was clearly visible encased in its leather. My initial urge was to hide it from view, but instead I let it lie and raised my eyes again. "You still have not answered my question."

His insufferable smile widened. "I haven't, nor will I until you answer mine."

I made a rude noise and shook my head, which incited him to a bout of laughter. At the sound several of the knights looked back to see the cause of the commotion. Ignoring them, he said, "You are not what I pictured of a proper lady of Rome. You are impatient."

"And you," I replied, "are not at all what I pictured of a knight."

"Indeed. But most likely you pictured a soldier of Rome, which I, thankfully, am not." He did not pause to let me dwell on the sour note that shadowed his words, and instead continued, "What is your name, lady?"

"Isolde."

There was a slight pause before he said, as I knew he would, "That is not a Roman name."

I sighed; I could not suppress it, for I had been told this a thousand times over during the course of my life. "No, it is not."

"Something you are well aware of, I would guess, by your tone. I apologize for stating the obvious."

He had done it again, spoken with his cynical humor that elicited my own smile. As though he found this encouraging, he said, "Then tell me, Isolde, where your name hails from."

My smile died, for here was a question I pondered every day I lived to draw breath. I had no other answer, and so I said simply, "I do not know."

A silence fell between us, broken only by the soft conversation of those who rode ahead of us and the rattling of the wagon. I had looked away from Lancelot and was studying the ground, aware of his scrutiny and cursing the answers I did not have. Finally he said, "You are an unusual one, Isolde of Rome."

And with that last, vague statement, he clucked quietly to his horse, urging it ahead to join his brethren in arms.

**. I .**

I have stated before that I thought it plain the fates toyed with me, and as if to provide me with further proof they bestowed upon me that afternoon yet another tangle to the dire web they wove continuously around me. Not long after I had conversed with Lancelot our small party left the rolling hills we had been negotiating and entered again a wooded realm; the wide road we travelled on was bordered now on both sides by thick forest. A slight tension seemed to fall over the knights as we fell under the shadow of the ancient, rustling trees, and they broke ranks so that they rode surrounding the wagon. I crawled back under the canopy to sit by my pack; pulling my knees to my chest I watched the four knights I could see- Galahad, Gawain, Bors and Tristan riding side by side- and listened with avid interest to their banter.

"I don't like him – that Roman," Galahad was saying, and I realized he spoke of Sidonius. "Why does he ride amongst us as though he belongs? As though he is of some importance?"

Gawain asked dryly, "Is this your happy face?" Bors began to chuckle, and a reluctant smile creased the youngest knight's face. Gawain continued, "Galahad, do you still not know the Romans? They won't scratch their asses without holding a ceremony."

"Why don't you just kill him?" Bors suggested.

Galahad shook his head. "I don't kill for pleasure. Unlike some."

This he directed to Tristan who rode silently at his side. The scout glanced at him, lips quirking slightly in faint amusement. "Well, you should try it someday. You might get a taste for it."

Gawain laughed at this, but Galahad merely looked disgruntled at the flippant reply. Bors said, "It's part of you. It's in your blood."

"No, no, no. No." Galahad said, shaking his head once more. "As of next year, this was all just a bad memory."

Bors made a dismissive noise as the young knight urged his horse ahead, breaking ranks with them. Tristan had fallen back and was riding almost even with the wagon; I watched with detached interest as he raised his head to the sky and produced a high pitched, wavering whistle. It was only a few seconds before a large brown hawk descended and alit upon his outthrust arm. As the bird ruffled its feathers, I heard him say softly, "Where you been, now? Where you been?"

As though sensing my regard, the scout turned his head. Swiftly I ducked my own, not wanting to again be on the receiving end of those unnerving, impassive eyes. When I looked up again he was gone, having fallen back to ride the rear of our party. My attention was drawn again to Gawain and Bors and their continued discussion.

"-besides, I have, I think, a dozen children." The large knight was saying.

"Eleven." Gawain corrected.

"You listen here," Bors said, pointing a finger at this comrade, "When the Romans leave the outpost we'll have the run of all that place. I'll be governor of my own village and Dagonet will be my personal guard and royal ass-kisser. Won't you, Dag?" He shouted the last; Dagonet rode at the head of our group with Arthur and made no inclination of having heard Bors' proposal.

"The first thing I will do when I get home is find myself beautiful Sarmatian woman to wed." Gawain stated.

"A beautiful Sarmatian woman? Why do you think we left in the first place?" Bors made a low sound that was unmistakably the bellow of a cow; Gawain snorted and Lancelot, riding up beside them both, chuckled.

"What about you, Lancelot?" Bors questioned. "What are your plans for home?"

"Well, if this woman of Gawain's is as beautiful as he claims, I intend to be spending a lot of time at Gawain's house. His wife will welcome the company."

"I see," Gawain said shortly. "And what will I be doing?"

I could not see the grin on Lancelot's face, but I was certain it was there. "Wondering at your good fortune that all your children look like me."

This remark roused Bors into hearty laughter, and Lancelot's horse broke past theirs in a brisk trot. Gawain called after him, "Is that before or after I hit you with my axe?"

Lancelot's reply, tossed casually over his shoulder, was lost in a sudden shrieking wail which rose around us in horrifying crescendo in the seconds before all hell broke loose.

**. I .**

It was as if time had slowed in the face of our alarm; I watched from where I knelt as from either sides of the road blue paintedBritons swarmed our group. The noise had awoken Lucilla, who was staring with wide eyes all around and crying questions at me. Gracchus had leapt from the wagon; the horses pulling us had halted and instead moved about nervously. To stay in the wagon meant certain death, I was sure, and so I gripped Lucilla firmly by the arm and hauled her to her feet.

"We need to get out of here!" I shouted, but she shook her head frantically, having seen the battle being waged outside. She pulled away from me, breaking my grip and falling into a whimpering huddle on the floor. I debated only for a second before whirling and leaving her there. I stooped and fumbled quickly with my pack a moment before wrenching free my small and slender sword. Fates knew if I had sufficient skill to defend myself against these wild creatures, but I would not go out unarmed. Lucilla screamed suddenly; I whipped about to find a Woad standing on the buckboard. His expression was savage, feral, and as he advanced I almost dropped my weapon for the sheer intensity of my terror. He lunged; I darted to the side, trying to make the most of the confined space I found myself trapped in. He brought his sword up then down in a swift, blurred arc; it took me a moment to realize that the reason I wasn't dead was because I had parried his blow with my own blade. Confusion clouded his dark eyes as they met my own, and a split second later he was attacking again.

It was as though I could hear the tutelage of my sword instructor back in Rome –_"Parry for parry, and then the thrust"- _for even though my entire body trembled I met each of his strikes with my own, and my ears reverberated with the harsh clang of steel against steel. The Woad was infuriated; he snarled at me in his brutish tongue and lunged again – all pretences were forgotten. I cried out, but my training, the training I never thought I would use, prevailed. His own forward momentum had driven him onto my blade, and as I pulled it free he collapsed with a strangled sound, his blood falling to pool about my feet. Lucilla stared at me, aghast; in an effort to get away from the vacant, condemning eyes of the first man I had ever killed by sword blade I stumbled out from under the canopy and managed somehow to get to the ground.

Chaos reigned everywhere I looked; some knights fought still mounted, some fought on the ground. I had only one second to interpret the violence I found myself confronted with before a shriek of such rage as to freeze my blood in my veins jerked me around. Another Woad, a woman this time, was approaching me with an animalistic, predatory gate, and her expression was one of eager bloodlust. I back-pedalled as she began to run towards me; I brought my own blade up to bear almost too late. She was relentless, shouting at me in her own language while striking at me with her sword. My world had narrowed; only she and I existed, and as we parried back and forth I felt a sort of detached calm flow through me. I was in Rome again, sparring with my instructor, and all was well …

The Woad had stumbled over a corpse –Gracchus- that lay with arms outreached on the ground near the wagon. _There_ –my chance to strike, my chance to _survive_-

The blood that sprayed from her neck as my sword completed its arc splattered my face, my arms, my chest, and I staggered back as she fell, clutching at me. Something solid fell against my back, and with a scream I whirled about, blade raised.

"Not me." It was the scout, Tristan, and he caught hold of my arm before I could complete the blow. The sword dropped from my nerveless fingers, and he released me. Something had changed, and it took me a long moment to realize that the fighting was over. Beyond us, all around us, the only ones standing were the members of our group.

"You use a sword." The scout said without inflection, tearing my attention away from counting those that had survived to the corpse of the Woad lying behind me. I nodded, suddenly very numb. His eyes moved from me to the dead woman, and then to the corpse that lay still in the wagon. I could see nothing behind that fathomless gaze, but knew he was weighing all he had seen. It was then that Lancelot appeared, blood covered, sheathing his two swords. He took one look at me and asked, "You are hurt?"

"Not her blood." Tristan said. He pointed at the sword lying by my feet, and then gestured with a nod of his head at the dead Woad woman.

"_You _killed her?"

Lancelot's blatant disbelief gave me back a piece of myself. Defiant, still very terrified, I met his eyes and nodded. "Yes."

"That one there, too." The scout said, indicating the body in the wagon. He left then without further comment. I knelt on shaking legs to grasp again my sword; it took me several attempts to lift it as I was trembling so badly.

"Isolde."

Lancelot's voice, careful and calm, raised my gaze. He said, "You truly did this?"

"Yes."

He pursed his lips, regarding me, measuring. I rose to my feet slowly only to drop the sword again. I left it lie, and focused instead on the blood that covered my hands, still glistening but slowly drying, and I began to rub at it fiercely. As I did so I recalled the sounds the Woad woman had made; the look on the face of the Woad male as he fell, gasping-

"Isolde." Lancelot had gripped my shoulder, and it took me a moment to focus on his face. "You're in shock. You have never killed a man before. It's understandable."

This statement made me laugh bitterly; it was either that or burst into uncontrollable tears. Never killed a man? I'd killed more than most would ever dream a woman capable of doing, but not in this manner, not like this …_  
_

And I had never, before today, killed a woman.

"Do you see that tree over there?" Lancelot asked me, pointing to a large elm on the edge of the road. I nodded, struggling to calm this horrified turmoil within me that was threatening to boil over. "Go sit beneath it. Sit there, and don't move, and I'll come for you when we're ready to leave."

He was giving me a chance to compose myself, I realized, and so I nodded again, hastily, before turning and slowly picking my way through the occasional dead Woad with an arrow protruding from its carcass to the tree. I did not sit when I reached it; instead I leaned against it heavily. I watched as the knights roamed the field, killing any enemies that were merely wounded. I watched as Galahad and Dagonet pulled Gracchus' corpse away from the wagon and wrapped it respectfully in a cloak. I watched as a hysterical Lucilla was led down from the wagon by a grim and bloodied Sidonius.

And all the while, I could feel within me something slowly dying.

**. I .**


End file.
